


Difrawder

by charlolwut



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Oneshot, Post First Wizarding War, Slice of Life, The lost years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 16:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13505217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlolwut/pseuds/charlolwut
Summary: Lyall tries to help his son.





	Difrawder

The light fell softly through the open skylight. The sky was rosen, weeping gently as greyed clouds sluggishly made their way across the sun. Raindrops fell on the tip of Remus’ toes, which hung out of the end of his childhood bed. 

Blinking, Remus reached up to scrub at his eyes. It was early, but the house creaked with movement. He sat up, glancing outside. The rolling paths glistened in the sunlight, the foliage darker and sodden with the rain. A lone magpie was perched on a low, wooden pole. 

A knock at the door came suddenly, accompanied by a low voice.

“Remus?” called Lyall, knocking again. 

The clouds cleared in the sky, and the sunlight poured through the gap in the curtains, coating the room in a golden shine. What should have been a calming moment only saddened Remus. He swung his legs over the bed and his feet landed on the floor with a damp thud. His bones ached, and his skin felt too tight suddenly. He rubbed his eyes again and let his hands drag down his face, feeling the rough stubble adorning his cheeks, holding it. After a moment, he repeated the action and stood up.

“I’m awake,” replied Remus. “I’m awake.”

* * *

The scrape of the knife against the toast was far too loud, the whistle of the kettle penetrating his keen ears. Everything seemed to be amplified, even the taste of the food. The egg yolk in front of him was too yellow, too watery, and Remus pushed his plate away slightly, instead opting to lean back in his chair and look out the window.

“Would you like some tea instead?” asked Lyall, anxiously. When it seemed that Remus wasn’t going to reply, Lyall popped a teabag into another mug anyway. “You need to eat, Remus.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Lyall paused. And then, “Your mother wouldn’t have liked that.”

“She wouldn’t have liked a lot of things,” replied Remus, a ghost of a smile on his face. “She wouldn’t have liked me being here.”

“She’d have loved you being here!” said Lyall, “She always wanted you to come home, you know, after school.”

“I know.”

The radiators began humming, filling up the room. Neither man spoke for a moment - Lyall deep in thought and Remus trying not to think at all. 

Lyall smiled. “The radiators were your mothers idea.”

“I know,” said Remus shortly. 

“She’d insisted that they were more comforting than heating charms,” continued Lyall, as if Remus had never spoken, “She loved magic, was thrilled whenever I did a silly trick, but there were some things that were just better in her mind. She loved Cardiff too, even after we moved half a dozen times. We’d always visit the Christmas market in the center. You might have been too young to remember it, but you used to love the lights and the stalls.”

Remus made a non-committal noise, and Lyall poured the hot water into their mugs. 

“Cardiff Castle was just brilliant to you. Of course, you weren’t to know that it paled in comparison to Hogwarts, but at the time it was the pinnacle of power to you. The first castle you’d ever seen. We took you to more after that. Castell Coch was the next obvious step, but after seeing your face, Hope insisted that we visited as many as we could. Skenfrith, Dinefwr, Caernafon, Penbroke, The White Castle. Each time we moved house, we made sure it was near a new castle for you.”

Lyall paused, his eyes glistening. The smile sunk from his thin face. 

“Of course, we had to stop when you were ten or so. The transformations got too…” said Lyall, trailing off. He stirred sugar and milk in the teas almost rigorously. “Well, I suppose you know.”

Something stirred in Remus. Something good. “You should have taken me to more English ones. I loved the Norman castles. Still do.” 

Remus took the mug from Lyall’s hand and sipped it. It was too hot, but it was a nice distraction from the burning in his head. 

Lyall smiled. “It was your mother that taught you the history behind them. The architects; the kings and lords who’d owned them; the conquest they’d been built in. It fascinated her as a child too, and I think your love for them reignited hers.” He laughed. “I found it hard to compete sometimes.”

Remus smiled. His hands were wrapped tightly around the boiling mug, and he could see his father itching to say something, to take the mug away from him.

“Well, anyway,” said Lyall finally, turning around to wash up the dishes. “You ought to be getting on, preparing and such. I know you like to do it alone.”

The hurt in his father’s voice was evident, but Remus wasn’t to be swayed. He was an adult; he knew how to handle his transformations now. Lyall had last dealt with them when he was but a teenager. It was too dangerous for him to get involved now. 

“Thank you, dad,” murmured Remus. He pushed his chair back with a scrape and stood up. If his father saw his hands shaking, he said nothing of it. 

Lyall didn’t reply, but Remus hoped it was enough. 

* * *

His skin prickled with the cold jabs of the wind. It hurt, though Remus wasn’t sure it was supposed to. Everything hurt these days. 

The sheep all turned and fled from him as he walked through the grassy lane, his hands deep in his tattered pockets. His father had assured him that they would, that they run away from everyone, but it stung nonetheless. They were prey animals, he knew, fleeing from a predator was in their nature. It didn’t stop him remembering how he had made friends with them when he was just a child. 

They were marked red, a sign that they were owned by the Lupins. His father had told him about smit marks, about how farmers had used they for hundreds of year for identification. His parents had been so pleased to own sheep. Though none of them were farmers, nor their family, they’d still had to have some sort of income when they were both jobless, and so they’d turned to farming animals on the land that had come with what would eventually become their retirement cottage. 

Remus had just been pleased to have woolly friends. He’d been completely uninterested when his father had excitably told him about the Enclosure Acts of the 18th and 19th centuries and why smit marks had come into existence. Hope Lupin, on the other hand, was more than happy to listen to her magical husband learning the supposed ‘wonders’ of muggle farming and government. She’d laughed when he bought home multiple muggle farming books from the library, and studied hard, without magical interference, into how to look after their new flock. 

Now, Remus felt, the sheep represented a lost life. One that was happy, once. When his mother had died, his father, already thin and far too old for his age from looking after a lyncanthropic child, declined rapidly. As Remus was participating in the first Wizarding War, Lyall could only look on and hope that his son wasn’t to die as well. He’d been happy that Remus had been fighting, but he’d have been happier if Remus had just come straight home.

Or so Lyall had told him. 

Remus kicked a stone aside, and walked faster. He’d used the pain of his mother’s loss to duel harder, scout better. He’d turned the guilt and hurt into power, through necessity. If he’d fallen with the grief, then he would have been no used to anyone. Everyone was already suspicious of the lone werewolf in the Order, he needed to keep working or be left behind. He must have appeared to be heartless, but he did what was critical to be done. 

Some days, he supposes that maybe that was what pushed Sirius into believing he was the spy. 

As Remus approached the end of the lane, the derelict shed grew closer. He’d have to put up multiple strong wards for this place to hold. Maybe even chains. 

Remus sighed heavily, and walked on. 

* * *

“I could help, you know,” called Lyall from the entrance of the shed. 

Remus turned around, annoyed that he’d been interrupted during a crucial spell. His father was leaning against the wooden wall, his arms crossed and his face pulled tight. 

“I’m okay,” replied Remus shortly. He turned back around and continued his spell casting, praying that he would leave. His temper wasn’t what it normally was.

A foot tapped the floor three times in succession. Lyall didn’t leave. 

“I’m okay, dad,” growled Remus, his wand movements now faster, angrier. 

“I taught you those wards. I’m probably just as good, if not better than you at them,” said Lyall. “Let me help.”

Exhaustion weighed Remus down. He didn’t want to argue, not right now, not while his mind was already frayed. Instead of replying, he waved his wand and shut the door behind his father. Not a moment later, he felt the magic surge from the man behind him, securing the wards Remus himself had already placed. He wanted to point it out, but bit his tongue and continued with his work.

When they were finished, Lyall lowered his wand and clapped Remus on the back. It stung bitterly, more than it should have. 

“Come on, son,” he said, “Lets get some food down you before tonight.”

Remus didn’t move.

“Remus, come on. You don’t mean to tell me you’re going to spend all day here?” said Lyall, “That’s ludicrous. You’ve got hours left.”

Remus grit his teeth. “By the time I get back, I’ll have 3 hours left. By the time we eat, 2. By the time I’m back here, locked up, 1. That’s not enough time, dad.”

“Of course it is, we used to lock you in ten minutes before. You were fine!”

“I’m not eight anymore.”

“We did it when you were fifteen, Remus, it’ll be fine, we can apparate, I’ll-“

“I’m twenty two now!” snarled Remus, turning around. Lyall began to open his mouth, but Remus cut in. “You don’t understand what it’s like now, dad. I feel it now, hours before! My head hurts, my body aches, all day. All day!”

“Remus…”

“I know what to do. I’ve dealt with this my whole life. Why won’t you trust me?” he snapped. His chest hurt, sharp knives cutting underneath his ribs. His words were lanced with poison, but he didn’t care. “I could kill you, dad. I could kill you right now, and I wouldn’t be sure if it was the wolf or myself. I need to stay away from people, I need hours to stop myself, to force myself to sit and wait for it.”

He paced, not knowing when he started, looking everywhere except his father’s eyes. He knew if he did, the shadow of the wolf might show upon his face. 

“My bones are creaking, dad. I feel as if I’m a hundred years old, and I’m always so angry, and I don’t know how to stop it, so you need to go, leave me alone!” said Remus hoarsely, even as the fury bled dry and misery took its place. “Please, go now. Before I hurt you.”

He half expected his father to embrace him, remembering what his outbursts concluded with as a child, but Lyall left. Quietly, without protest.

When the door was closed, and silence was all that was left, Remus stood still. He thought it’d feel good, someone finally believing him and doing what he told them to do, but all he felt was disappointment. Anger had abandoned him abruptly, leaving shame crawling in its wake. He suddenly wanted to call after his dad, tell him he was sorry and he’ll come home. He wanted hot chocolate and the warmth of his mother, wanted to laugh with James and Peter, want to run in the fields and never ever stop. 

A restlessness overtook him, and he returned to pacing, his hands clenching so hard he left crescent shaped marks in his palms. 

* * *

Lyall heard the howl from his kitchen. He flinched hard, hot tea spilling over his cup. Obviously, they’d forgotten to sound proof the shed. It didn’t matter too much, there was nobody around for miles for hear. Except for jittery, old Ms Martin, and she wasn’t likely to hear a thing anyway. 

Not knowing what else to do, and yet knowing what was coming to his poor son, Lyall Lupin put his head in his hands and waited.

* * *

“Oh, Remus.”

The voice sounded heartbroken. Remus wouldn’t know for sure; he couldn’t quite lift his head to see if the voice matched the expression. 

Suddenly, icy hands touched his arm, the palms slightly damp. Remus started, let out a hiss of discomfort and tried to pull his arm away, unsuccessfully. The hand retreated anyway, quickly, as if Remus’ arm was red hot. 

“I’m sorry, Remus,” said the voice, panicky, “I’m sorry, I’ll be gentle. Let’s patch you up, come on.”

But Remus couldn’t quite breathe properly, let alone muster enough energy to move. Every breath he took was a stab to his ribs. He was almost tempted to just give up, see how long he could last without oxygen. Passing out might even be preferable.

“No, Remus, come on, breathe. You need to move.”

Suddenly, there were the icy hands again, this time underneath his armpits. Remus didn’t bother trying to help, too busy taking in sharp, painful breaths. He almost sobbed with the pain when he was slowly dragged and propped against the wall, his back crashing against the wood. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Remus tried to open his eyes, but slammed them shut again once he saw how bright the light was. It seemed to drill into his head. Instinctively, he grabbed his head with his hands, his body curling inwards, moaning with the agony of it. However tightly he held, it didn’t help the pounding of blood echoing in his head. 

“I- I’m going to get help, wait there, Remus,” babbled the voice, “Wait right there, I’ll be back, I promise.”

He couldn’t tell whether it was Sirius, James or his father. It was the slow shuffle of the feet retreating that made him laugh with the absurdity of it all. Of course it wasn’t James or Sirius. Sharp knives stabbed him as he keeled over, laughing and crying with the ridiculousness and heartache. 

* * *

In the end, it was jittery, old Ms Martin who came to help. Lyall couldn’t call the police, certainly couldn’t call the Aurors. His first aid kits (both magical and muggle) weren’t designed to be used for severe injuries, and so he ran down the lane, as fast as his frail body could carry him, to beg some supplies off Ms Martin, whom he knew to be a retired nurse. As it turns out, she was a retired healer. 

“Oh, I’ve known for years, Lyall,” she laughed, as she tottered up the pavement, her medkit in her arms, “You and Hope just assumed, and I got on with Hope so well that I just never bothered to correct you. I was happy to play muggle with your Hope.”

“That’s great, Ms Martin, but we need to hurry,” puffed Lyall, “He’s in a bad shape.”

“He must be, poor child. Hope said enough times that he was sickly,” she replied, picking up her pace. 

By the time they had got to the shed, Remus had sunk to the floor, looking half dead. Lyall was immediately at his side, feeling for a pulse. He didn’t hear Ms Martin pause behind him, didn’t see her shock.

“Lyall, dear, was he attacked?” she asked, the horror now evident in her voice. “What’s happened?”

Lyall didn’t want to explain; he suspected that his Hope had never told their neighbour what Remus was afflicted with. 

“Please,” he begged quietly, “Just help my Remus.”

Ms Martin took a big breath and joined the two men on the floor. “I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

What she could do was simultaneously not much and an awful lot. Remus’ bruised (broken, they suspected) ribs were tightly bandages, and the bruises covered with ointments. But the bites kept weeping and bleeding however much she added dittany and bandaged them. 

“Lyall, you really need to tell me what caused this,” fretted Ms Martin, as she dabbed frantically, trying to stem the bleeding, “If it’s what I suspect, then I need silver.”

Lyall froze. He didn’t want to confirm her theory, but…his son.

Reaching up, he unclasped the necklace with his Hope’s wedding ring on it from around his neck. Without hesitating, he placed it on the ground, and conjured a bowl. Pointing his wand at it, he murmured, “Incendio.”

The burst of flame from his wand was intense enough to melt the necklace, creating a small pool of silver. Lyall swallowed down the heartache in his chest, and offered the bowl out to his neighbour.

“Here, silver.”

Ms Martin looks horrified. “Lyall, I don’t-“

“You promised you would save him. He hasn’t changed since you found out his condition.”

“Lyall…”

“He’s twenty two years old!” roared Lyall, “He’s barely lived his life! Save it!”

Ms Martin swallowed. “Alright. Alright.”

She took the silver, poured a glob of dittany in with it and mixed it well. Apprehensively, she dipped her fingers in it and then hovered them over Remus’ skin. Lyall was just about to take the bowl from her and do it himself, experience be damned, but Ms Martin seemed to have come to a decision and quickly, carefully, cleaned and covered the bites. They stopped bleeding almost immediately, greenish smoke billowing upwards from the wound.

Lyall sighed. “Thank you.”

* * *

Ms Martin had left almost as soon as she could. When Remus was healed as best as they could manage, she packed up her things and hovered in the doorway of the derelict shed. 

“Is there anything else I can do?” she’d offered, whilst sounding desperate to leave. 

“No, it’s okay. Go on,” replied Lyall. 

“I didn’t mean to be so bigoted earlier, Lyall,” she’d said, not budging from the door. “I just…I’ve seen the injuries werewolves inflict. Its horrendous, it is. I just never imagined little Remus being one.” She tried to smile. “You must have been very brave parents, the two of you.”

Lyall had thought of the prejudice he’d spat in Greyback’s face all those years ago, of fending off the great werewolf who’d tried to murder his son. He’d thought of Hope, the depth of her love for their son, how she’d lost weight and sleep over worrying for him. He had thought of this morning and last night, how he just left Remus on his own and how he had to run for help at the first sight of the injuries, the ones that Remus must have taking care of on his own since the Potters had died.

“Not really,” he had replied, tersely. “We just did what we could.”

Now, Lyall was levitating his son back up to the house, mindful of his injuries, wondering what had gone wrong. 

* * *

When Remus awoke, it was to the sound of birds outside. A thick, heavy quilt was draped on him, and all too suddenly it was too hot, too claustrophobic. He fought to get out, but a hand on his arm steadied him, and peeled back the covers down to his chest. 

Remus looked down, his heart giving a brief skip as he saw the thick layer of bandages wound tightly around his ribs. Swallowing tightly, he looked back up to see his father perched on his bed, a sort of helpless smile on his face. 

“Good morning, Remus,” said Lyall.


End file.
